


Numb to Your Old Glory

by OomnyDevotchka



Series: Like a Kick in the Head [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:39:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OomnyDevotchka/pseuds/OomnyDevotchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even five months after the Apocalypse that Wasn't, Sam never stops being grateful for the simple things." Sam and Dean Winchester get wind of the odd happenings in Beacon Hills, and come to investigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numb to Your Old Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Big giant thank you to [Dollarformyname](http://dollarformyname.livejournal.com) for the gorgeous, fantastic art, the masterpost of which can be found [here](http://dollarformyname.livejournal.com/62033.html). Also, thanks to [IndusNM](http://indusnm.livejournal.com/) for the beta, and check out her Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/765482) if you haven't already.

         

            Even five months after the Apocalypse that Wasn’t, Sam never stops being grateful for the simple things.

            They’re in the Impala, Dean driving and Sam in the passenger seat, and the mountains and valleys of western Nevada are moving steadily past the windows, turned purple by the dusk. It’s good, and it’s familiar, and he can predict what Dean’s going to say next down to the inflection in his voice.

            “So, dead people?” Dean prompts, and Sam looks down at the papers in his lap, as much to hide his grin as to refresh himself on the details of the case. He clears his throat before speaking “Laura Hale.”

            Dean scoffs. “Dude, really with the dramatic pauses?”

            “It was like, four milliseconds!” Sam protests.

            “Whatever. Laura Hale?”

            “Right.” Sam looks back at his paper, re-orienting himself with the grisly details. “Back in September, the Beacon Hills police found her body in the woods. Well, half her body.”

            Dean grins, taking his eyes off the road long enough to make sure Sam gets the full effect. “Which half?”

            Sam rolls his eyes at Dean’s immaturity, but can’t keep the mirth out of his own voice when he answers “The bottom half.”

            Dean nods. “Awesome. They ever find the rest?”

            “I’m getting there,” Sam says. “So they found the other half of her body buried on her family’s old property, where her brother, Derek, had been staying.”

            “So they suspected the brother, then?” Dean asks.

            “Yeah, they hauled him in for questioning and everything, but they determined that it was an animal that killed her, so they let him go.”

            “You thinking werewolf?”

            Sam shrugs. “I mean, there was no mention in the papers of a missing heart, but it could be. Anyway, just a couple days later, another guy gets attacked. Garrison Myers, all scratched and bitten up, but didn’t die until he’d gotten to the hospital.

            Dean gives a little frown. “That’s not really a werewolf’s M.O.,” he says. “Are we sure we can’t chalk that one up to an actual animal attack? I mean, they have mountain lions and shit in California, right?”

            “How many mountain lions do you know that can rip the back door off a school bus?”

            Dean grimaces. “Point taken. Is that all?”

            “Oh, I’ve barely even started,” Sam says. “Kody Wynne, video store clerk, had his throat slit inside the store, then whatever killed him apparently jumped through the window. Two high school students, Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore, were on the scene.”

            Dean takes his eyes off the road again. “Why do we care about the high school kids?”

            “I’m getting there.”

            “I think you’re enjoying drawing this out,” Dean grumbles, looking back towards the road.

            “If you had bothered to _read_ the articles, you would already know the situation,” Sam pointed out. “Anyway, a few nights later, a janitor at the local high school was killed. The police were notified of this when they got a call that five students were trapped in the school after hours. The names of the students weren’t in the papers, but I’d bet you anything that Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore were in that school. The kids claimed that Derek Hale was the one who trapped them there.”

            “Wait a second,” Dean says. “If the guy had them trapped _twice_ , why didn’t he just kill them?”

            Sam shrugs. “Remember the thing with Madison?” he asks. “She only went after people she had a grudge against, like her stalker ex-boyfriend. Maybe the kids were just wrong place, wrong time.”

            Dean levels Sam with a skeptical look. “Twice? No way. Besides, this can’t be a werewolf – the moon schedule doesn’t add up.”

            Sam pulls out a well-worn book. “I was looking in Dad’s journal, and he mentioned a theory he’d heard that pureblood werewolves, those who were born and not bitten, have the ability to control their changes a little better than others and change when it’s not the full moon.”

            Dean groans. “Wonderful. So these guys can be killing machines at any time.”

            “Basically,” Sam says. “Uhh… What else? The bodies of a few bums were found in the woods, a nurse and patient at the local hospital went missing – and get this, the patient’s name was Peter Hale.

            “So that’s three Hales, then,” Dean says. “I think it’s safe to assume that there’s something off about that family.”

            “No kidding,” Sam agrees. “And I think I know what that is. After I saw Peter’s name, I did a little background search on the Hales. Turns out, there was a house fire about six years ago. Must have been one of those weird extended family situations, because about a dozen people were killed. There were only three survivors.”

            “Derek, Laura, and Peter,” Dean says. “They got out because they were werewolves, then?”

            “I don’t know,” Sam says, frowning down at his papers. “There was no indication that Laura Hale was shot with any bullets, let alone silver ones. Besides, why would one werewolf kill another?”

            “God, this shit is complicated,” Dean says. “How’d they get out, then?”

            “Laura and Derek were only teenagers when the fire happened, so they were at school,” Sam replies. “Looks like Peter wasn’t exactly unscathed – the article mentioned that he was badly burned, and had fallen into a coma from his injuries. Given that he was in the hospital up until about a week ago, I’d say those were some pretty serious injuries.”

            “Jesus.” Dean says. “Is that all?”

            “Nope,” Sam replies, ignoring his brother’s sarcasm. “A few days after Peter and the nurse went missing, there was an attack on a girl during a high school dance.”

            “Lydia Martin?”

            “Lydia Martin. That same night, police found the body of a woman named Kate Argent at what was left of the Hale house – her throat was ripped out. They’re saying, based on a necklace that was found on the body, that Kate may have been the one to start the fire.”

            “That evidence is kinda circumstantial, isn’t it?” Dean asks with a frown.

            Sam shrugs. “I thought so, too. That’s why we’re going to check things out. From what I could tell, they still haven’t caught Derek Hale, so Beacon Hills isn’t safe yet.”

            “Can’t say I blame the guy for killing that Kate bitch if she burned his house down,” Dean says. “But why kill all the other people? Revenge is one thing, random killing is another.”

            “Maybe they all had something to do with the fire?” Sam suggests. “Arson on that level isn’t usually a one person job. They would’ve had to lay down accelerant, make sure no one could get out of the house, make it look like an accident…”

            Dean glances over. “Sounds like you’ve been giving this a lot of thought.” His stupid smirk shows that he’s joking, but Sam can’t resist rising to the bait. He gives an offended huff. “It’s not like we’ve never set something on fire before,” he points out. “You _know_ how much gasoline it takes to burn a corpse. Imagine trying to lay down enough to burn down a fucking mansion.” He brandishes one of his newspaper articles, one that has a picture of the Hale house pre-fire. It’s enormous, and Dean can see Sam’s point.

            “I’m just messing with you, Sammy.” He says, before heaving a sigh. “Why do I get the feeling that this case is going to be a clusterfuck?”

            “Probably because it is,” Sam replies, tucking all of his papers away so that he can sit more comfortably. “How far away are we?”

            “Like four hours,” Dean says, but his attention is focused back on the road now that Sam’s finished talking. He messes with the radio a bit, and the opening strains of “Smoke on the Water” fill the Impala. Dean taps out the drum beat on the steering wheel, and Sam looks out the window again to hide his smile.

            Sam and Dean spend the night in the one skeevy motel that Beacon Hills offers. The next morning, bright and early, they head down to the police station, wanting to speak with the local authorities about the case.

            The woman behind the desk at the station is pretty in a no-nonsense kind of way, so Dean flashes her his best smile as he pulls out his FBI badge. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Agent Blackmore, and this is Agent Gillan. We’re here to speak with the Sheriff?”

            The woman seems to have a bit of a weakness for Dean’s special kind of charm, because she comes over all giggly before ushering Sam and Dean through the door to the Sheriff’s office.

            Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. He’s far too used to his brother’s antics to really care, and besides, it’s not like Dean’s gonna sleep with her, anyway. He’s got someone else.

            Sam hides a smile as he’s reminded of Dean’s odd, celibate, non-relationship with their resident angel. Part of him just wants to shout at Dean to get his shit together and just screw Cas already, but the other part is having far too much fun watching them awkwardly tiptoe around their feelings for each other. 

            The Sheriff of Beacon Hills turns out to be a tired-looking man with piercing, intelligent eyes, who introduces himself only as “Stilinski.”

            “Agent Gillan, and this is Agent Blackmore,” Sam says, reaching out to give the Sheriff’s hand a firm shake. Dean, in his typical tactless fashion, chooses to ask “Stilinski? Is that your first name, or…?” as he gives his own handshake.

            Sam shoots his brother a glare, but Stilinski doesn’t seem offended. “Last name,” he says. “I’ve been called “Sheriff” for so long that I’m not used to hearing my first name.” All three of them settle into chairs.

            “Even from your wife?” Dean asks, indicating a picture on the Sheriff’s desk that shows a much younger Stilinski with one arm wrapped around a pretty, laughing woman, a small boy at their feet.

            The Sheriff’s kindly smile melts off his face, replaced with a look of deep sorrow. “My wife passed away about six years ago,” he says.

            Sam resists the urge to facepalm, Dean looks like a deer in headlights.

            “Our condolences,” Sam says smoothly, when it becomes clear that Dean’s not going to do anything to smooth over his faux pas. “We’re here to discuss the recent murders with you.”

            Stilinski nods, his wistful look retreating again. “I see. I’m not sure why the FBI’s getting involved in this, though. We’ve solved the murders.”

            Sam flips open the little notebook in which he’s written the summary of the events. “Yes. I see that your department is blaming Kate Argent for the murders?”

            “Not all of them,” the Sheriff replies. “Some – Laura Hale, the bus driver – seem to have been killed by animals. A rogue mountain lion was killed at the high school about a month ago, and the animal-related murders stopped after that.”

            Sam and Dean exchange a quick look. After so long hunting together, they’ve developed a sensitivity to each other’s facial expressions. Silently, they decide not to contradict the Sheriff on his point about the animals.

            “Fair enough,” Dean says. He flips open his own little notebook, which is blank. “However, our records indicate that the evidence your department is using to tie Kate Argent to the murders – and, indeed, to the Hale fire – is fairly circumstantial. Tell us about this necklace you found?”

            The sheriff leans forward at his desk, fingers steepling together underneath his chin. “I thought the same thing, at first,” he admits. “Our only lead came from the chemistry teacher over at the high school, Harris. He claims that, a few days before the Hale house burned down, he met a young woman at a bar. They got to talking, and he gave her details about his job. Told him how to mix just the right combination of elements together to make a fire look like an accident.”

            Sam and Dean exchange looks again. Seems like a lot of trouble just to set a fire. Gasoline works perfectly fine. Then again, they were usually long gone from the scene of a crime before the police could figure out it wasn’t an accident. “And the necklace?” Sam prompts, turning back to the sheriff.

            “A pendant, sixteen karat gold. Had this picture on it, a sort of rough drawing of a wolf,’ the sheriff says, before shaking his head. “Here, I’ll show you.”

            As Stilinski gets up to exit the room, Sam and Dean lean their heads towards each other. “So far, it sounds like he doesn’t know much more than we do,” Dean says. “This is a bust. Let’s just go after Hale.”

            Sam shakes his head. “I’m not so sure. I think the good sheriff knows something he’s not telling us.”

            “Why wouldn’t he tell us?” Dean asks, giving a smirk. “We _are_ the FBI, after all.”

            “Yeah, and we’re supposedly investigating a solved case,” Sam argues. “I still think we should’ve told him we were from the wildlife department.”

            Dean’s retort is cut off by the sheriff’s return. He’s got a small gold chain dangling from his fist, which he extends to show to them.

            Sam takes it, and lets out an audible gasp when he recognizes the markings.

            “Mean something to you?” the sheriff asks wryly.

            Sam shows the design to Dean, who nods. “The Beast of Gevaudan,” he says. “There was an incident in France in the eighteenth century, where over a hundred people were slaughtered by a strange-looking animal. It’s where a lot of our modern werewolf legends come from – the silver bullets, for example.”

            Both brothers look closely at the sheriff’s face throughout Dean’s explanation, but he does nothing suspicious. Instead, he gives a tired smile and says “As coincidental as that legend might be, my department was more interested in the origin of the necklace. We traced it back to its origins, and, as far as we can tell, it’s completely unique. It wouldn’t be enough evidence to convict, of course, but her death means that’s no longer our concern.”

            Sam, though he’s reluctant to part with such a vital piece of evidence, gives the necklace back to Stilinski. If need be, he and Dean can always break in and steal it – the Sheriff’s station doesn’t exactly have state-of-the-art security. “So, you think that Laura Hale and the bus driver were killed by animals. That means you’re implicating Kate Argent in the deaths of the video store clerk and the men in the woods, the disappearance of Peter Hale and the nurse, and the attack on Lydia Martin. Even with the necklace to tie her to the fire, that seems to be a bit of a stretch.”

            The Sheriff sighs and runs a hand over his hair. “Listen, agents. I’ll be frank with you. Our department has been tied up with this case for months, and there’s only two sure things that we know. One, each and every person who was killed or attacked, with the exception of Miss Martin, who was likely targeted because she had been at the scene of an earlier attack, can be traced back to the Hale fire. And two, the killings stopped the night Kate Argent died. Now, we still have the case open, in the event that the killings start up again, but as far as we’re concerned, it’s all over.”

            “Wait,” Sam says. “ _All_ of the killings can be related to the Hale fire?”

            The sheriff brings up one hand and begins counting off on his fingers. “Laura was connected for obvious reasons. The bus driver, Myers, was an insurance agent at the time of the fire – ruled that it wasn’t arson. The video store clerk and the homeless men all had a record for arson a mile long; they could’ve been accomplices. Again, Peter has an obvious connection, and the nurse was taken because she was close to him. It all comes back to the fire, and Kate Argent.”

            “You sound like you’ve done a lot of research into this fire,” Dean says.

            “I was on duty the day it happened,” the sheriff replies. “There were kids in that house – Laura and Derek had a little sister that was only eight, and one of their cousins had just had a baby. Have you ever smelled burning human flesh, agents?”

            Dean grimaces. “More often than I like to think about.”

            “That’s the only time I’ve ever smelled it, and it’s like it’s seared into my nose,” the sheriff says. “I can still smell it, sometimes. And when I was on that scene, all I could think about was those poor people, my neighbors, my _friends_ , all dead because of one madwoman. We suspected it was arson then, we just couldn’t prove it.” The sheriff looks down at his hands before continuing, in a much softer tone. “They asked me to break the news to Derek and Laura, even though I was only a junior deputy then, because I have a kid of my own, so they thought I’d handle it better. They had already been called to the office, so they knew something was up. I’ll never forget the look of terror in their eyes when they saw my uniform, how lost and devastated they looked when I had to tell them that everything and everyone they had ever loved was gone.” The sheriff stops talking for a moment, taking a deep breath to collect himself, before raising his eyes back to Sam and Dean. “My wife died just a few months after the fire. I felt like my whole world had been ripped apart, and I know it changed my son forever. I can’t even begin to imagine how Derek and Laura had felt, if just that one loss had so much power over me. So yeah, you could say that I’ve done a lot of research into it. It won’t bring their family back, but those kids deserved to have the killer brought to justice. And she has been.”

            Sam and Dean are silent for a moment, absorbing the sheriff’s words. Before long, though, Sam has to speak up, because if supernatural creatures are involved here, then they don’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for the Hales’ loss. “Surely you’ve questioned Derek, though?” he asks. “Even if revenge would be understandable, you still must’ve made sure he didn’t have any connection to Kate’s death?”

            Stilinski looks straight into Sam’s eyes. The look is calm, but it’s somehow much more intimidating than most of the more obviously threatening ones he’s been faced with. Despite the fact that the sheriff can’t be more than ten or fifteen years older than him, Sam feels the same way he had when he’d been reprimanded by John or Bobby as a kid.

            “My personal feelings about the persons under investigation do not affect my work,” Stilinski says, calmly and deliberately. “Derek Hale was brought into the station on three separate occasions: after Laura’s body was found on his property, after the kids who were stuck in the school claimed that he was the one who trapped them, and after Kate’s death. He had an airtight alibi for each of the last two occasions, and he was cleared on the first because Laura was killed by an animal. Derek didn’t kill anyone.”

            Sam nods, latching onto one of the topics the sheriff had mentioned. “About those kids who were stuck in the school,” he says. “What was that all about? I mean, why would they claim that Derek had trapped them there when he hadn’t?”

            The Sheriff rolls his eyes. “I know all of the kids that were trapped that night, some better than others. The one who claimed the culprit was Derek is like a second son to me. He’s the impulsive type, jumps to conclusions a lot. He must’ve seen someone from a distance and mistaken him for Derek, because there’s no way Derek could have been there.”

            “None of the other kids saw him?” Dean asks.

            The sheriff shakes his head. “No. They all said it was Scott who told them it was Derek, and they just believed him.”

            “The papers didn’t give the names of the kids involved that night,” Sam says. “But it might be helpful for our investigation to have that information, maybe ask them a few questions.”

            The sheriff nods, though he looks suspicious. “I suppose it can’t hurt,” he says. “There were five of them. Scott McCall, the one who claimed he saw Derek. Jackson Whittemore and Lydia Martin, who had been at the scene of one of the earlier attacks. Allison Argent. And,” the sheriff winces slightly. “Stiles Stilinski.”

            “Allison _Argent_?” Sam asks, at the same time as Dean says “Stiles _Stilinski_?”

            “Yes, Allison Argent as in Kate Argent’s niece, and Stiles Stilinski as in my son.” The sheriff shrugs. “What can I say, the kid has a knack for mischief.”

            “You named your son _Stiles_?” Dean asks.

            Sam elbows him, but the sheriff just shakes his head. “It’s a nickname. His mother picked out his first name, and even I can’t pronounce it properly. It’s easier for everyone.”

            Sam makes the executive decision to leave the sheriff’s office before Dean puts his foot in his mouth again. “Thank you for your time,” he says, standing up and offering the sheriff his hand. “We’ll keep you posted on our investigation.” Dean follows his lead, and soon enough they’re in the parking lot, making their way towards the Impala.

            “So, we’re definitely going to have to check out this Derek Hale character, huh?” Dean says.

            “Definitely. I want to talk to Scott McCall and the Whittemore kid, too. The whole thing seems really fishy.”

            “The whole thing seems really _wolfy_ ,” Dean says, giving a large grin. “Time to stock up on the silver, Sammy.”

            Sam groans at Dean’s awful joke. “Do we really need to waste him, though? I mean, if the sheriff’s right, and he was only going after people who were involved in the fire…”

            “He attacked that girl, remember? She couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Besides, he might be dangerous. Who says that he won’t start wasting people who cut in front of him in line, or whatever? Look, I’m not saying we have to go in guns blazing, but we need to be prepared.”

            Sam nods. “You’re right.”

            As the two of them close the doors to the Impala and blaze off, they don’t notice the young man who comes around the building, face white as a sheet and hand on his phone.

            “Jesus Christ, Scott, pick up,” Stiles mutters to himself as he dials his best friend’s number for the second time with shaking hands.

            The call goes to voicemail again, and Stiles swears. This is bad. This is very bad.

            He’d been sitting in his room, bored, when he’d gotten the idea to check his father’s police scanner. There hadn’t been anything interesting going on, but one of the deputies had let it slip that his father was talking to the FBI, and therefore couldn’t come out on his routine patrols. Stiles, being the curious (nosy) person that he is, had decided to go see what was going on, because he couldn’t think of a single reason that the FBI would be in Beacon Hills.

            Or, rather, he could think of _one_ reason. But he couldn’t possibly be right, because that case was closed, had been since Kate Argent had died, taking the blame for the string of murders that had actually been Peter Hale’s fault.

            The thought that the FBI could be here to investigate those murders had been in the back of Stiles’s mind as he’d driven down to the police station, but he hadn’t been too worried. After all, there’s no way the FBI would ever believe that werewolves were behind the murders.

            When he’d gotten to the station, he had been disappointed to see that two unfamiliar men in suits, presumably the FBI agents, were just leaving. He’d hoped to eavesdrop on their conversation with his father, but they had obviously concluded their business. The two agents were still talking to each other, though, and so Stiles had the idea to hide behind the building and listen in on _their_ conversation.

            What he’d heard had sent him into a state of blind panic.

            After the third failed call to Scott, he gives up and gets back into his jeep, pointing it in the general direction of the Hale house.

            He hasn’t seen Derek since the night Peter died, because Scott had emphatically refused to see him, and Stiles really had no reason to visit him without Scott. He’ll never admit it, but Stiles has actually missed seeing Derek. He’s funny, in a brutal sort of way, and Stiles always responds well to humor.

            Stiles shakes his head, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. This isn’t a social call. From the snippet of conversation he’d heard outside the sheriff’s station, Stiles had been able to tell that these men were hunters, and not the type that they’d had to deal with before.

            There had been no mention of the code that Chris Argent held so dear, and that’s mostly what Stiles is worried about. The last hunter Stiles met who hadn’t followed the code was Kate Argent, and he’s petrified that these two men will be like her, harsh and cruel and completely unconcerned with how many innocent people they destroy in order to get to their victim.

            Stiles snaps out of his thoughts as he pulls up to the Hale house and throws the Jeep into park. He’s trying to get out of the car as quickly as possible, because Derek _has_ to be told what’s going on, so of course he has trouble getting his keys out of the ignition, and then he forgets to take his seatbelt off before trying to stand up, causing him to be jerked unceremoniously back into his seat.

            He takes a second to shut his eyes and just breathe, because if he allows this to take him over, he’s going to have a panic attack right here and now.

            Once he’s gotten his racing heart to slow to a manageable rate, he opens his eyes, only to jump back when he’s faced with Derek Hale.

            “Dude!” he shouts.

            A faint smirk is playing around Derek’s lips. “Why are you here, Stiles?” he asks.

            Right. Derek’s sudden appearance had momentarily distracted Stiles from the matter at hand. “So I was listening to the police scanner earlier…” he begins.

            Derek cuts him off with a huff. “What did you do?”

            Stiles gapes. “Why would you assume that I did something?”

            “What did _Scott_ do?”

            “Nothing!” Stiles replies, feeling the need to defend his best friend even though he thinks that Derek has a point. It usually is Scott getting them into these kind of situations. “I heard that the FBI was here to talk to my dad, and I went down to the station to see what was up, ‘cause I thought that was weird, y’know? I mean, Beacon Hills is a quiet place when it’s not being terrorized by a power-hungry, revenge-driven alpha, so there really would be no reason for the FBI to come around, because the biggest case my dad has had in the last few weeks is Mrs. Albert’s heroin dealer son, and -”

            Derek’s eyebrows have been slowly climbing up his forehead throughout Stiles’s entire spiel, and he picks this moment to finally interrupt. “Can you get to the point, _please_?” he says, clearly exasperated, but with a hint of humor still in his eyes.

            Stiles has become skilled at looking for the nuances of Derek’s expressions in the time since they were first thrown together, which is why he’s no longer afraid of him. Even with his new alpha powers, Derek is a known entity to Stiles, one that won’t seriously hurt him. Not just, he thinks, because Derek knows that both the Argents and the entire Beacon Hills police force would be on his ass if he did, but also because he finds no joy in hurting others. Hell, he hadn’t even killed Kate, and Stiles thinks that if he were Derek, he would’ve caught up to that bitch long ago, strung her up and tortured her until she begged for death.

            Right now, though, Derek’s starting to look a bit impatient, and, despite Stiles’s conviction that he’s not in any physical harm, he thinks he’d better speed this up. “ _Anyway_ ,” he says “I got there after they were already done talking to my dad, and I overheard a conversation between them. They’re hunters.”

            Derek’s entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t seem as panicked as Stiles is. “If they’re hunters, then they know about the code, and that this is Argent territory. They’ll go and talk to the Argents, and find out that Scott and I haven’t hurt anyone. Everything will be fine.”

            Stiles hates to disabuse him of this notion, really, but he’s got no choice. “I don’t think so, dude,” he says, stepping closer and ignoring Derek’s warning glare at the form of address. “They didn’t say anything about the code, or the Argents. They specifically said they were coming after you.” Stiles pauses for a second. “They kept talking about how they were gonna ‘waste’ you, which, I don’t know what kind of bad mob movie they think they’re in, but…” He trails off, noticing that Derek seems significantly more upset than he had a moment ago.

            “So you think they’re rogue?” Derek asks.

            Stiles shrugs. “One of them seemed uncomfortable with the idea of killing someone who hasn’t hurt anybody, but the other seemed to think that they should take you out before you had the chance to hurt anyone.”

            A muscle is going in Derek’s jaw, and Stiles is struck, suddenly, by just how _unfair_ life’s been to Derek. It seems like he can’t get a break, like every time he turns around, there’s someone or something else looking to take things away from him.

            “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Stiles says after an awkward silence. “But this is way above my pay grade, dude. I don’t know what to do.”

            Derek nods, so slowly that it looks painful. “Make sure you tell Scott what’s going on,” he says “I’ll get in contact with the Argents, see if they know anything.” His voice is authoritative, but the way his hands are curled into fists, as though he’s trying to keep them from shaking, makes Stiles think that Derek doesn’t really know what he’s doing either.

            “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Stiles asks, doubtful. “I mean, aren’t they _also_ trying to kill you?”

            “Not actively,” Derek replies. He’s started to look around, distracted from the conversation, and Stiles takes that as his cue to leave. He gets back in the car, but before he can shut the door behind him, Derek grabs it, holding it open. “Make sure Scott doesn’t do anything to draw attention to himself,” he orders. “And don’t you do anything stupid. Hunters like these won’t care if you’re human, not if you’re helping werewolves.”

            A large part of Stiles wants to make a quip, something about how Derek _does_ care about him after all, but it’s as though there’s a large weight on his chest, and he can’t bring himself to force the words out. They would feel too real, right now.

            Derek holds Stiles’s gaze for another few seconds, before he pushes the door shut and begins to make his way towards the woods at a run.

            Stiles takes a deep breath before turning his keys in the ignition.

            He’s got a best friend to find.

            After their meeting with the Sheriff, Sam convinces Dean to do a little more detective work before lunch. Dean is reluctant, claiming that they already have more than enough evidence to confront Hale themselves, but he’s not really in the mood for fighting with his brother, so he acquiesces.

            When they get to the town’s only hospital, they’re greeted by a pretty curly-haired woman in scrubs, who’s typing away at a computer behind a low counter. Dean perks up at the sight of her, but Sam doesn’t need to see Dean’s flirting twice in one day, so he speaks up before Dean gets the chance. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he says politely, stepping closer to the counter and pulling out his badge. “We’re with the FBI, and we’d like to ask a few questions about some of your patients.”

            The woman narrows her eyes at Sam. “Let me guess. You’re here about the victims of those animal attacks. Well, I can tell you what you need to know, but I doubt you’ll be able to find something that our police department wasn’t able to.”

            Sam’s slightly taken aback at the woman’s strong personality, but he smiles at her nonetheless. He’s always liked outspoken women best, never been able to appreciate the demure type. “It may be just a formality, Mrs…?”

            “ _Ms._ McCall. And please, call me Melissa.”

            Sam begins to give his false name in return, but Dean chooses that moment to enter the conversation. “McCall?” he asks. “Would you happen to have a son named Scott?”

            Melissa sighs. “I take it you’ve been to see the Sheriff already, then,” she says. “Yeah, that one’s mine. And believe me, we’ve had a conversation about falsely accusing people of things.” She steps out from behind the counter and motions for them to follow her with a flick of her head. “C’mon, I’ll show you poor Lydia first.”

            As Sam and Dean begin to follow her down a sterile white hallway, Sam picks up the train of conversation. “So you find that the explanation the police have given for these attacks satisfying?”

            Melissa glances over her shoulder. “Why shouldn’t I? It makes sense that a woman crazy enough to light a house on fire would also be crazy enough to flat-out kill people. And this is California. Wild animals are a risk we have to deal with.” She shrugs. “Besides, I’ve known the Sheriff for years. He wouldn’t just let a case like this go if he weren’t satisfied with the answers.” She stops in front of a room with several large windows that allow passers-by a clear view of the young girl lying on the bed inside. “It’s just a shame that Lydia had to get hurt,” Melissa says. “The doctors say she’ll be fine, but it’s still a terrible thing to happen to a sixteen year old girl.”

            Dean’s peering into the room, curious. “How long has she been out?” he asks.

            “A few days,” Melissa says. “Her physical wounds are pretty superficial, but the attack caused her to go into massive shock.”

            Sam nods at the explanation. “May we?” he asks, gesturing towards the door.

            Melissa nods, shooing them ahead of her with her hands.

            As they enter the room, they finally get a good look at Lydia Martin, victim and person of interest in their case.

            The first impression Sam has is one of overwhelming fragility. Lydia’s lying there on her back, pale and drawn, red hair spread around her. She looks like Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White, a fairy tale heroine frozen in time, just waiting for her cue to wake up.

            It’s always the saddest when Sam and Dean have to see kids this young affected by supernatural evil. The adults, Sam reasons, have already had a long life wherein they didn’t have to be constantly terrified of what’s hiding in the dark. Lydia, though, is just a girl, just a high-school student with too much makeup and her whole life ahead of her. She doesn’t deserve this, and Sam can feel his earlier resolve to stay neutral about this case weaken. If he finds out that Derek Hale hurt Lydia, he’ll have absolutely no trouble putting a silver bullet between his eyes.

            “So what happened to her?” Dean asks Melissa, pulling Sam out of his own head.

            “There was a school dance a couple of weeks ago, and Lydia, for some reason, wandered out onto the lacrosse field alone. Jackson Whittemore, her ex-boyfriend, was the one who found her and brought her in.”

            Sam and Dean exchange significant looks. “Are we sure that these injuries aren’t the result of a more…domestic dispute?” Sam asks.

            Melissa walks around the bed and pulls the blanket down so that a gauze-covered area on Lydia’s side is exposed. She pulls it back slightly, and beckons Sam and Dean over to look at the ragged gashes and bite marks underneath. “That look like something a human could’ve done?” Melissa asks wryly. She covers Lydia back up before stepping away. “Look, Jackson Whittemore’s not the nicest kid in the world. But, even if he were capable of putting someone in the hospital, he’s not capable of making marks like this. No, it was an animal, for sure.”

            Sam and Dean both nod. “Fair enough,” Sam says. The room is starting to feel stifling to Sam, especially now that he’s seen Lydia’s wounds. “Why don’t we step outside, and you can tell us about the rest of the victims?”

            Melissa nods, and leads them out of Lydia’s room. For the next hour or so, she fills them in about all the victims, bringing out medical records and autopsy forms as well as sharing her own experiences with them. By the time Sam and Dean leave, calling out their thanks to Melissa, they have a whole lot of new information, none of which is particularly helpful in determining whether or not Derek Hale was a killer.

            The only really useful thing that had come out of the meeting was that Melissa had finally agreed to allow Sam and Dean to question her son. Sam and Dean, however, decide upon leaving the hospital that they have more pressing matters to attend to.

            “This Kate Argent’s family…” Dean begins. “They can’t be too pleased that she was framed for the murders, if that’s what really happened.”

            Sam nods, folding his large body up to slide into the passenger seat of the Impala. “We should definitely get their side of the story,” he says. “You write down the contact number that was on the medical forms?”

            Dean holds up his formerly empty notebook, which now has seven large digits scrawled across the first page.

            “Great,” Sam says. He leans over to take the notebook, and is surprised when Dean jerks it out of his reach.

            “Not yet, Sammy,” Dean says as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot, simultaneously stuffing the notebook back in his jacket pocket. “Lunch awaits.”

            When Stiles gets to Scott’s house, he spends a few minutes banging on the front door before he accepts that no one’s going to answer. Mrs. McCall’s probably at work, which means Scott’s either a) with Allison, and therefore ignoring the door, or b) at Allison’s. Stiles isn’t really sure which of those two options he’d prefer.

            Stiles thumps his head lightly against the door, mentally cursing both Scott’s obsession and his own stupidity in forgetting to bring his key to Scott’s house. He’s about to give up and get back in the jeep, to either go get his key or stake out Allison’s house, when his eyes fall on the tree he’d used to climb onto Scott’s roof many times before.

            Grinning to himself, Stiles grabs one of the low hanging branches and begins to walk his feet up the side of the tree. When he heaves himself up onto the branch, scrambling to get purchase, he pulls himself onto the next one, which puts him within jumping distance of Scott’s porch roof.

            A quick leap, and he’s over the gap. Once there, though, he pauses – he’s never actually attempted to get into the house before, preferring instead to hang out on the roof in order to scare Scott.

There’s a little overhang, though, which leads right to an open window that, if Stiles remembers the layout of Scott’s house correctly, leads into his hallway. If he’s careful, he can make it.

            He’s just about to start inching his way across the overhang when he hears a voice cry out “Dude, what the _hell_ are you doing?”

            Shocked, Stiles flails a little. Luckily, he’s still on the thick part of the roof, so it doesn’t cause him to lose his balance. “Shouting at a guy on a roof isn’t a good idea, Scott!” he calls down.

            Using the same method that Stiles had used, but with considerably more speed and grace, Scott gets himself up on the roof. “ _Being_ on a roof isn’t a good idea either,” he points out, once he’s standing next to Stiles.

            Stiles scoffs. “Where have you been, anyway?” he says, changing the subject. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

            Scott looks sheepish. “I was at Allison’s,” he says, as though that’s news to anyone.

            Stiles rolls his eyes. “Lemme guess, you only left because her parents came home.”

            “Well, yeah,” Scott says. “You know that I can’t spend as much time with her now that her parents know I’m a werewolf.”

            Stiles is suddenly beyond exasperated. “It’s great that you’ve got this wonderful, pretty girlfriend that you _love_ ,” he snaps. “But I needed to be able to get in touch with you, and I couldn’t.”

            “What’s gotten into you?” Scott asks, not rising to Stiles’s bait. “That’s never bothered you before.”

            “I beg to differ,” Stiles mutters under his breath, even though he knows Scott will still be able to hear him, before raising his voice again. “We’ve got a problem,” he says. “Hunters. And not the kind that’ll just let you rock on with your wolfy self.”

            Scott looks much less concerned than Stiles feels he should. “Do they know about me?”

            “Well, no,” Stiles admits. “Only Derek. But it’s only a matter of time before they find out about you, and besides, we should help Derek.”

            “Why?” Scott asks defensively. “What’s he ever done for us?”

            “Are you joking?” Stiles replies. “Without Derek, you’d have been recruited right into Peter’s pack, and would probably be dead by now. You owe him everything, dude.”

            “You can’t know that,” Scott argues, stubborn. “Maybe I would’ve been fine without him.”

            “Considering how many times you almost killed _me_ , I’d guess not,” Stiles says coolly. “You would’ve ended up killing someone without Derek, and Mr. Argent would’ve put you down like a dog.”

            Throughout the conversation, there’s been a comfortable gap between Scott and Stiles. When he hears Stiles’s last words, though, Scott immediately eliminates that space, walking over to grab his best friend by the collar and haul him up so his feet aren’t touching the ground. Putting his face close to Stiles’s, a muscle ticking in his jaw, he says, quietly “I don’t want anything to do with Derek. Understand?”

            Instead of responding to Scott’s question, Stiles meets Scott’s gold-streaked eyes and replies, just as quietly, “You’re proving my point, right now.”

            For a moment, Scott continues to hold onto Stiles, and Stiles is more frightened of him than he’s been since the first time Scott lost control around him.

            Then Scott steps back, releasing his grip on Stiles’s collar and causing Stiles to fall unceremoniously on his ass.

            Recognizing that his welcome has run out, Stiles moves towards the edge of the roof, preparing to climb back down to the ground. Before he leaves, though, he turns to Scott and says, in a voice completely devoid of malice, “Just lay low for a while, alright?”

            Scott still has his back turned to Stiles, but he gives a little nod. Satisfied, Stiles slides off the roof and back into the tree.

            As Sam and Dean make their way towards the address that Kate Argent’s brother had given them over the phone, Sam feels uneasy.

            The conversation with Chris Argent had been strange, to say the least. When they’d first gotten him on the phone, Chris had seemed reluctant to discuss his sister at all, deflecting every question they asked him. Then, Dean had mentioned Derek Hale, and it was as though Chris’s reluctance vanished entirely – suddenly, he was inviting Sam and Dean to his house, promising to tell them everything he knew about Kate’s death.

            Sam knows from experience that people who change their mind like that, all at once, tend to have some kind of agenda of their own. When he’d mentioned his thoughts to Dean, he’d agreed – but pointed out, rightfully, that Chris was still worth investigating.

            Still, as the Impala pulls up to an opulent yet tasteful house, Sam’s instincts are buzzing at the back of his mind, warning him of _danger, danger, danger_.

            They step out of the car and walk up to the front door, looking, to the casual observer, like completely ordinary visitors. A more astute observer, however, would be able to see that both brothers reached underneath their coats to check their weapons before they knocked at the door.

            The woman who opens the door is, quite frankly, terrifying. Her close-cropped dark red hair and the eyebrow she arches at the sight of Sam and Dean lend a sort of harshness and austerity to her looks that takes Sam aback. Judging from the way that Dean doesn’t even try to charm her, choosing instead to extend a silent hand, he feels the same way.

            The woman looks at Dean’s hand for a moment before finally taking it and giving it a firm shake. “I’m Victoria Argent,” she says. “Chris’s wife. Please, come in.” She finally gives them a smile, which looks so out-of-place on her face that it makes her look more frightening, rather than less.

            As they walk over the threshold to the house, following the click of Victoria’s high-heeled boots, Sam hears Dean mutter “ _Christo_ ” behind him. Victoria doesn’t flinch, which is unfortunate, because Sam would really like to exorcise this woman.

            Victoria brings them to a living room and invites them to sit, then leaves the room, presumably to go get her husband. As soon as she leaves, both Sam and Dean get back to their feet, taking the opportunity to check around the inside of the house. They don’t find anything, though, in the few minutes they have available to them, and, by the time Victoria walks back into the room with a man who can only be Chris, Sam and Dean are both on the couch again, looking like they’d never left.

            Although there’s no possible way that Chris could know that they had just been snooping, barring some kind of very well-hidden camera, the way he’s looking at them, suspicious and searching, makes Sam feel like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He doesn’t like it, because Dean already makes him feel like a kid on a daily basis, and he doesn’t need this stranger’s help. He decides to break the silence, getting back to his feet (and noting, to his satisfaction, that he towers over Chris) and offering Chris his hand. He opens his mouth to begin his spiel of introducing himself, but Chris cuts him off with a patronizing smile before he can.

            “I know you two aren’t from the FBI,” he says.

            Sam flounders for a moment, and Dean takes over, much more at home with the sort of blustering bravado necessary in this situation than his brother. “I’m afraid you’re wrong about that,” he says, badge at the ready.

            Chris doesn’t even bother looking at the badge. “I’m afraid I’m not wrong,” he says. “My contact at the FBI claims that he’s never heard of an ‘Agent Gillan’ or an ‘Agent Blackmore.’ And I trust him with my life.”

            _Shit_. Dean and Sam exchange looks, both wondering what they can possibly say now. “We’re undercover agents,” Sam invents quickly, “For the LAPD. We’re here to investigate the murders, and we’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your sister, Mr. Argent.”

            Victoria speaks up, coming to perch on the edge of the chair that Chris is sitting in. “I didn’t know the LAPD were in the habit of having their officers impersonate FBI agents,” she says coolly. “The truth, gentlemen, if you please?”

            Sam and Dean look at each other again, both recognizing defeat when they see it. Sam leans forward, lacing his hands together and looking Chris straight in the eyes. “Mr. Argent,” he begins. “What do you know about werewolves?”

            Sam’s expecting shock or disbelief, or laughter. Really, he’s expecting pretty much anything but what he gets.

            Chris raises an eyebrow. “Pretty much everything there is to know, actually. What do _you_ know about werewolves?”

            Sam’s mouth drops open. “Wait, you believe in werewolves?”

            “Considering that it was a werewolf that killed my sister, it would be pretty difficult for me _not_ to.” Chris says.

            Dean recovers from this shock faster than Sam. “So those murders, then. They were definitely werewolves?”

            “Well, were _wolf_ ,” Chris says. “As far as we know, only the one ever did any killing. And he’s been taken care of.”

            “So it wasn’t Derek Hale, then?” Sam asks.

            “Peter Hale, actually,” Chris says, allowing a smile to soften his features. “What he was doing in a coma for six years, we’re still not sure, but he’s the guilty party, and he’s dead.”

            Sam slumps back in his seat, stumped. “So…that’s it, then?” he says.

            Chris nods. “Much as I’d _like_ to go after the rest of them, there are certain standards of behavior we follow,” he explains. “Meaning, we don’t kill them unless they hurt a human.”

            “How can you be sure they _won’t_?” Dean argues. “Isn’t it better to prevent them from hurting people in the first place?”

            Chris shakes his head slowly. “Rest assured, gentlemen. The second one of the other werewolves steps out of line, it’s as good as dead. But until then, we don’t interfere. Now,” he stands up and inclines his head towards the Winchesters. “I’d suggest that you keep on moving, boys. We hunters don’t take too well to sharing territory.”

            His tone rubs both brothers, especially Dean, the wrong way, but they have no choice but to get up and leave the house, saying polite goodbyes to Chris and Victoria as they go.

            After his blow-out with Scott, Stiles had returned to Derek’s house. He was worried about Derek’s safety, yeah, but he also didn’t want to go back to his house because he was certain that the two hunters would come looking for him sooner or later. He had been too entwined in all the weird shit that went down for them to not pick up on it, and it makes sense that they’d want to go after the human first, squeeze him for information. Stiles doesn’t doubt his ability to lie his way out of the situation, but he’s seen how nasty hunters can get, and he’d rather not be subjected to their ‘interrogation’ techniques. Not only will chilling at Derek’s house buy him a little more time before they find him, but he also has no doubt that Derek won’t allow them to take him.

            That is, he wouldn’t, if he were home.

            Stiles cautiously exits the Jeep and walks onto Derek’s porch, looking around for any sign of life. His instincts are telling him that something’s wrong, that Derek should have been back from the Argents’ by now.

            He pushes back the front door of the burned out house, wincing slightly at the creaking noise it makes. It seems that Derek is above things like locking his doors, which makes sense, really – anything that could be stopped by a mere lock, Derek could probably take down in seconds.

            Stiles isn’t quite so effortlessly badass as Derek, though, so he swings the door shut behind him.

            It’s the first time he’s ever actually been inside Derek’s house, and he feels a shiver run through his entire body at the thought of what had happened here. He knows how it feels to have a house turn into a mausoleum – even the smallest trace of his mother left in his house can trigger memories – but he’s never been in a place that is so stark and visceral a reminder of death. It’s a tomb, a concentration camp – every piece of charred wood, every half-melted appliance, every flake of ash is a memento, a warning, a fucking _accusation_. Stiles wonders how Derek stands it.

            He also wonders if they ever removed the bodies.

            That morbid line of thought is interrupted by the door creaking open again.

            Stiles freezes. He’s completely out in the open like this, and if it’s those hunters, or worse, _his dad_ , he’s screwed.

            “Stiles, what the hell are you doing?”

            Stiles exhales with relief and turns around to face Derek. “Hey, buddy!” he says. “Just…hanging out. Checkin’ out the joint, y’know?” he brings a hand up to scrub through his hair.

            Derek just raises an eyebrow, his arms crossed over his chest.

            “I was snooping,” Stiles admits. “But only a _little_ bit! I came here to make sure the hunters didn’t find me, then I thought I’d be safer in the house, then I figured, y’know, while I’m here…”

            Derek still looks impassive. “You decided to hide from the hunters at a house that belongs to the person they’re after?”

            “Well, when you put it like _that_ …” Stiles says.

            Derek rolls his eyes, but slackens his confrontational posture. “Go home, Stiles,” he says. “I spoke to Argent, and he told me that he would explain the situation to those hunters. No one’s in any danger.”

            Stiles hadn’t realized just how much he was freaking out over this whole situation until Derek says those words. He feels as though he’s just gotten pardoned from execution or something. Still, he needs to confirm. “You trust him, then?”

            Derek hesitates a little, but nods. “I do.”

            If it’s good enough for Derek, it’s good enough for Stiles. “Alright then,” he says, beginning to walk backwards towards the front door. “I guess I’ll get outta your hair then, and I’ll see you around. Hopefully. Or actually, hopefully _not_ , because it seems that I only see you when bad shit’s going down, and I’d really rather that _not_ happen, because I’m not sure I can take all that stress, and Harris is _definitely_ gonna have my head on a platter if I skip any more homework, and -”

            “Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles shuts up, expecting that to be the last thing Derek says to him.

            He turns towards the door, and hears Derek say “Thank you. For coming to me with this.”

            Stiles grins to himself, says, “No problem, dude,” and leaves.

            When they get back to their motel room, Sam and Dean just look at each other for a long moment. “What now?” Dean asks, echoing Sam’s thoughts.

            Sam shrugs. “I guess I’ll look through the newspapers, try to pick up on the trail of another case?”

            Dean throws himself on one of the beds, bringing his arms up to clasp behind his head. “You do that, Sammy,” he says. “I’m gonna catch up on some sleep.”

            There’s a knock at the door, then, and Dean groans. “Fucking typical,” he mutters, and goes to open the door.

            Sam smirks and goes back to his newspaper. It’s probably a cleaning lady or something, so there’s no need for him to pay attention.

            Or so he thinks. He hears Dean exclaim “Victoria!” from the door and throws his newspaper down, getting to his brother’s side as quickly as he possibly can.

            Victoria raises an eyebrow at the pair of them. “Gentlemen,” she says crisply. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

            “How about you tell us what you’re doing here, first?” Dean says, crossing his arms across his chest and giving Victoria his most intimidating look.    

            Victoria rolls her eyes and pushes past Dean to walk into the room. Dean, who hadn’t been expecting her to ignore him, merely steps back to allow her in, surprised.

            Victoria looks around the room and clicks her tongue. “How do you people _live_ like this?” she demands.

            Sam opens his mouth to reply, but Victoria cuts him off. “Never mind, I don’t care. I’m here to talk to you about the werewolves.”

            “And say what?” Dean asks, sinking down into one of the chairs in the kitchen area. “Your husband made it very clear that they were off-limits, end of discussion.”

            Victoria’s eyes flash in annoyance. “My husband can sometimes be a little too soft for his own good,” she says.

            Sam and Dean exchange a look, unable to reconcile the Chris Argent they’d met with the word ‘soft’.

            “These werewolves are dangerous,” Victoria continues. “Sure, maybe none of them have killed anyone yet, but I know for a fact that Derek Hale has turned someone.”

            “That…changes things,” Dean says slowly. “How do you know?”

            “I have my sources,” Victoria says smoothly. “We cannot allow these monsters to continue spreading their poison. All they have to do is bite the wrong person, and there could be another killing spree. It’s for the good of the community, for the good of humanity in general. You have to kill them.”

            “If you’re so passionate about this, why don’t _you_ do it?” Sam asks.

            “Because Chris _refuses_ to see reason,” Victoria snaps, an ugly look coming over her face. “Because he refuses to break the terms of an agreement that is generations old. Because I am implicated in this agreement as well.”

            “If you kill them, other weres might use that as an excuse to go after you and your husband,” Sam says. “We don’t have an agreement, so we can claim that we didn’t know the Code.”

            Victoria nods, suddenly looking tired. “Look, here’s the real reason I’m asking you to do this. I have a daughter, Allison. She’s seventeen years old, and she insists that she’s madly in love with her boyfriend. Her boyfriend, who’s a werewolf.”

            Dean starts. “She _knows_ the guy is a werewolf, and is still dating him?”

            “She insists that he’d never hurt anyone. Like he’s some harmless house pet instead of a wild animal,” Victoria says. “I’ve seen the aftermath of too many werewolf attacks to count. I know how they are, and how they operate. If one of them doesn’t kill Allison…”

            “They’ll turn her.” Sam finishes.   

            Victoria inclines her head at him. “She may even _ask_ them to turn her.”

            Dean nods, mulling over Victoria’s story. “We’ll do it,” he decides. “Do you have names?”

            Victoria smiles for the first time since she’d walked through the door. “I do,” she says. “There’s Derek Hale, but you knew that already. Scott McCall, who’s Allison’s boyfriend. The other three are Jackson Whittemore, Stiles Stilinski, and Lydia Martin.”

            “So wait,” Sam interrupts. “You want us to kill four high school kids, including the Sheriff’s son and a girl who’s in a _coma_ , even though they haven’t actually done anything wrong yet?”

            “It’s only a matter of time!” Victoria shoots back. “I have proof of that in Derek, at least.”

            “Sam,” Dean says. “You know she’s right.”

            “No, I don’t,” Sam argues. “I’m not killing _children_ , Dean!”

            Dean’s obviously gearing up to fight back, but Victoria interrupts him. “Well, you two talk it through. I hope you’ll see reason. She walks to the door and pulls it open, but pauses before leaving. She looks over her shoulder. “You two _do_ know how to kill werewolves, right?”

To the Dean snorts. “Yes, we know how to kill werewolves, lady.”

            Victoria gives him a cool look before striding out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her.

            The next morning sees Dean and Sam at the end of the long driveway that leads to the burnt-out remains of the Hale house, handguns loaded with silver bullets.

            After a long and loud fight in their motel room the night before, Dean had gotten Sam to agree to go after Derek. After he’s taken care of, their plan is to try to talk to the teenage werewolves, try to assess the risk they pose to the community before deciding how to deal with them.

            Sam still isn’t really happy with the arrangement, but he had finally agreed that something needed to be done about the situation. Killing Derek, at least, won’t weigh on his conscience too much.

            “Ready?” Dean asks, checking his gun for the fourth time.

            “Ready,” Sam confirms.

            The two of them begin to walk up the driveway at a leisurely pace, trying their best to look casual. They don’t really know what to expect with this new type of werewolf, but they’re reasonably certain that he won’t be able to tell they’re out to get him. Still, they’re not going to rush into this thing, not when one little mistake can cost them their lives.

            Both of them have had enough of dying for quite a while.

            They’re almost to the house when they finally catch their first glimpse of Derek. He’s standing near the bottom of his porch steps, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his leather jacket and a dark scowl on his face.

            Sam notes with some surprise that Derek is both young and quite handsome. The description he’d gotten of Derek had caused him to expect someone older, crueler looking.

            He supposes that, after Madison, he shouldn’t be surprised when a werewolf is good-looking.

            Dean calls out to the figure. “You Derek Hale?”

            Derek inclines his head. “I am. And you are?”

            “We’re from the FBI. We’re here to investigate -”

            Derek cuts Dean off with a snort. “Cut the crap,” he says dismissively. “I know you’re hunters. I also know that Chris Argent told you that I had nothing to do with those murders. Why are you here?”

            “You’ve been turning people,” Dean says simply. “We can’t accept that.”

            Derek’s lip curls. “He knew what he was getting into,” he says. “I explained everything, and he still wanted to be turned.”

            “He?” Sam asks.

            “Jackson. I thought you said you knew that.”

            “What about the other one? The Stilinski kid?” Dean asks. “Did you explain before you turned him, too?”

            The hostility melts from Derek’s face, replaced by a look of surprise. “Stiles isn’t a werewolf,” he says.

            Dean snorts. “Yeah, right. Why should we believe you?”

            “Because I’m telling the truth,” Derek says, taking a step closer. “Because the only person I’ve ever killed was a murderer himself. Because Jackson literally _begged_ me to turn him. Because without me, plenty more people would have died.”

            Sam’s not so sure about this, anymore. “Dean -” he starts, but Dean holds up a hand to cut him off, his face like stone.

            Dean brings up his gun, aiming it at Derek, who begins to back away, clearly ready to take his chances and bolt. Before he has a chance, though, Dean pulls the trigger, and the silver slug buries itself in Derek’s chest.

            Derek stumbles, but doesn’t fall like they’re expecting. When they’ve killed werewolves before, the effect of the silver bullet has been similar to the effect of the Colt on various monsters – it was the silver’s contact with the body, not the damage from the bullet, necessarily, that did the damage.

            Though the bullet seems to have hurt Derek, the silver has quite obviously had no effect, and, suddenly, Sam and Dean are no longer in a position of power. If Derek recovers enough to attack them, or call other members of his pack, it’s entirely possible that Sam and Dean could die today.

            The Winchester bravery is legendary, but no one can say that they don’t know when to cut their losses. Sam grabs on to Dean’s arm, distracting him from staring in dismay at Derek, and the two of them haul ass out of there.

            It’s time to regroup.

            Derek doesn’t know why his first instinct when he’s injured is to go to Stiles’s house.

            It could be that it’s a leftover association from the time with the wolfsbane bullet, when Stiles had, despite his complaining, done whatever he could to do heal Derek.

            It could also be that Stiles is the one person in the world with whom Derek feels completely comfortable, but he’s not quite ready to admit that to himself, yet.

            Considering what had happened the last time he thought himself completely comfortable with a person, he thinks he may not ever be able to admit it.

            In any case, it’s Stiles’s house that he finds himself outside of after Dean and Sam flee his property, instead of Deaton’s clinic. He’s at a bit of an impasse, though – The bullet that’s still lodged in his chest cavity is causing him too much pain to take his normal route of climbing in Stiles’s window, but he can hear the Sheriff’s heart beating steadily away inside the house, and he’s in no condition to explain why he wants to see Stiles to his highly protective father.

            Instead, he skulks around to the back yard, like the creeper that Stiles is always accusing him of being, and parks himself under Stiles’s window, trying to alert Stiles that he’s here with the power of his mind.

            It doesn’t work, of course, because Stiles is nothing if not contrary, and Derek briefly considers calling him on the ancient cell phone he carries around, before realizing that he’s never bothered to ask for Stiles’s number.

            There’s only one thing he can do, and just the thought of it makes him hate everything.

            Holding a hand over the bullet wound, Derek bends over, gritting his teeth against the burst of pain that the motion causes him, and picks up a few of the small pebbles that are strewn throughout Stiles’s backyard. He straightens back up and, before he can think too much about the mocking he will undoubtedly endure for this, throws one of the pebbles so it taps on Stiles’s window.

            He waits a few moments, but Stiles doesn’t come to the window. Derek rolls his eyes, throwing the second pebble a little harder, so it makes an insistent _clink_ on the window.

            The window slides open, and Stiles’s shorn head pokes out, Derek suppresses a sigh. _Finally_.

            When Stiles spots Derek, his mouth drops open in an expression of comical surprise. “Derek? What the hell are you doing, man?”

            In response, Derek just lets his hand drop from his chest. Even in the dying light of dusk, it’s easy to see the bloodstain across his shirt.

            Stiles gasps out, “Shit!” and pulls his head back inside the window, narrowly avoiding hitting it on the dash. After just a few seconds, he pops back out. “Go around front,” he orders. “I’ll distract my dad and then let you in.” This time, Stiles does hit his head as he goes back inside, but Derek can’t find the energy to laugh at him.

            He does what he’s told and makes his way around to Stiles’s front door, mindful of what the cars passing by can see of his wound. He has to wait a few minutes before Stiles opens the door, panting, and drags him inside.

            “C’mon, hurry up!” Stiles urges as he ushers Derek toward the stairs.

            “A little hard for me to move, right now,” Derek grits out.

            “My dad’s going to get suspicious!”

            “How’d you distract him, anyway?”

            Stiles looks sheepish. “I barricaded him in his room?”

            Now that Derek concentrates on something other than the overwhelming pain, he can hear banging and the Sheriff’s voice, undoubtedly muffled to human ears, shouting for Stiles to let him out. “I think it’s safe to say he’s already suspicious,” Derek quips as they reach Stiles’s room.

            Stiles rolls his eyes and shoves Derek bodily into the room, shutting the door behind him and running off, presumably to appease his irritated father.

            Derek wants nothing more than to collapse on Stiles’s bed to try to relieve some of the aching that standing upright is causing him, but he’s reluctant to get his blood all over Stiles’s things. So he ends up standing around kind of awkwardly until Stiles comes back in the room.

            “Dude, lay down!” Stiles yelps, coming over to guide Derek towards his bed.

            Derek snaps at him, just on principle, but Stiles doesn’t flinch and Derek lets himself be guided, settling onto the bed with secret delight.

            “Why isn’t it healing?” Stiles asks, gesturing to Derek’s ruined chest.

            “The bullet’s still in there,” Derek explains. “I can’t get it out by myself.”

            “So you came to _me_?” Stiles says. He sounds incredulous, but he’s already moving closer to Derek, gingerly trying to peel the tatters of his shirt away from the wound, so Derek doesn’t think he’s going to refuse to help.

            “I wasn’t thinking properly,” Derek protests, holding back a grimace, both at Stiles accidentally brushing over his wound and how fucking obvious he’s being right now. “You were the first person I thought of.”

            “That’s fair, I guess,” Stiles allows. “You could hardly go to Scott, huh?” He leans back slightly, nose wrinkled in disgust. “So, uh, how exactly am I supposed to fish this thing out of you?”

            Derek hadn’t really thought that far in advance. “Don’t you have forceps or something?”

            Stiles gives him a _look_. “Do I look like a doctor to you?” Derek opens his mouth to reply, but Stiles cuts him off. “Don’t answer that.” He wanders over to the desk where his laptop is sitting, booting it up.

            “Stiles,” Derek says, trying his level best to sound as patient as possible. “Could you please postpone your MMORPG playing until _after_ you get the bullet out of me?”

            Stiles doesn’t look up from where he’s typing something into a search engine. “Google is your friend when it comes to figuring out how to dig a bullet out of someone,” he explains. “Also, how the hell do you know what an MMORPG is? There’s no way in hell you have wifi in your burned-out horror mansion.”

            “I lived in New York,” is Derek’s reply.

            Stiles doesn’t dignify him with a response, merely continues clicking away until he shoots out of his chair, evidently having found an answer to his question. “Be right back,” he says, and sprints out the door.

            Derek is left alone in the room, once again, to contemplate how exactly his life came to the point where he’s relying on a teenager with ADHD to perform medical procedures on him.

            When Stiles comes back with a large kitchen knife, his life practically flashes before his eyes. “What the _fuck_ are you going to do with that?”

            “All of the sites that didn’t recommend just leaving the bullet in said that it could be pried out with a knife,” Stiles explains.

            Derek isn’t really looking forward to having Stiles gouge at his chest with a knife, but he supposes it’s tame compared to the time that he almost made Stiles cut off his entire arm, so he nods. “Alright, get on with it. The sooner you get it out, the sooner I can heal.”

            Stiles looks hesitant. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to Deaton’s?” he asks. “I’ll even drive you there, if you want. I mean, he’s definitely going to know what to do better than me, and it probably won’t cause him permanent trauma, like it’s going to cause me, because he’s probably used to cutting cute little animals open, and oh my God, that’s an awful mental image-”

            “Stiles,” Derek interrupts, squeezing his eyes shut. “ _Please._ ”

            Unseen by Derek, Stiles’s face sets in resolve, and he gives a decisive nod. “Alright.” He casts his eyes around the room for a second, landing on one of his lacrosse gloves. He snatches it up and holds it out to Derek. “Bite down on this.”

            It’s a mark of how much pain Derek’s in that he doesn’t even think to argue, choosing instead to take the glove into his mouth. He also tangles his fingers in Stiles’s sheets, in preparation for the pain.

            “Okay,” Stiles says to himself. “Okay.” He leans over the wound in Derek’s chest, and finds that he can see the metal of the bullet glinting at the bottom of it. The only solution he can think of is to stick the knife as far into the wound as possible and try to use the leverage to pop it out. “Ready?” he asks Derek, who merely nods, his eyes closed again.

            Taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the nausea that had set into his stomach the second he decided he was actually doing this, Stiles sets the tip of the knife to the side of the wound and begins to press down, opening a new slice in Derek’s flesh and causing fresh blood to seep out.

            Derek, meanwhile, is flexing every muscle in his body, biting down on Stiles’s glove with newly sprouted fangs, and clutching at Stiles’s sheets with clawed fingers. It’s not the worst pain he’s ever felt – the wolfsbane bullet wound has that dubious honor, but it comes pretty damn close, and it takes all his concentration and willpower not to scream out loud or flinch away from Stiles’s touch.

            Stiles is biting his lip so hard that it’s turning white, and he wants nothing more than to just stop, because he doesn’t like hurting Derek, but he knows that the best thing he can do for Derek right now is to keep going. So he pushes the knife down further, until he feels like he’s finally reached the bottom of the bullet. A little wriggle of the knife, and the bullet begins to slide out, millimeter by painful millimeter, until Stiles can grab it with his fingers and pull it the rest of the way out.

            Panting as though he’s run a marathon, Stiles pulls he knife out of Derek’s chest and flings it and the bullet onto his floor, not caring about the splatter of blood that it causes. He sinks back into his computer chair and tries to stop his hands from shaking.

            It takes a few minutes, but Derek eventually relaxes, allowing Stiles’s now perforated lacrosse glove to slip out of his mouth. He can already feel the muscles of his chest knitting back together, the pain from the wound fading by the second. After a few deep breaths, he’s recovered enough to speak. “Thank you,” he says, turning to the pale as a ghost Stiles.

            Stiles’s laugh has a slightly hysterical edge to it. “I would say ‘no problem’, dude, but that was, in fact, a problem.” He shudders. “Ugh. At least I now know for sure that my future does not lie in the medical field.”

            Derek allows himself a weak laugh, before he remembers the other reason why he’d come here. “Argent must have betrayed me,” he says, face twisting up in anger. “It was those hunters, the out-of-town ones. They said that I had to be killed because I’d turned Jackson.”

            Stiles snorts, looking more like himself by the second. “If they’d seen how desperate Jackson was to become a werewolf, they’d be singing a different tune. I would have turned him out of sheer annoyance, actually.”

            Derek smirks. “I pretty much did.” He sits up, slowly, and begins to peel what remains of his shirt off of his torso. Stiles, for once is silent, and Derek’s about ninety percent certain that he’s distracted by Derek’s torso. It’s a good thing. Only because it’s distracting Stiles from his freak-out, though. No other reason.

            Derek shakes his head and chalks his thoughts up to post-wound delirium (they aren’t). “There were a couple weird things, though,” he says.

            “Hmm?” Stiles looks up from where he’d been looking at Derek’s bare chest and immediately flushes a dark red.

            Derek rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the smug happiness Stiles’s blush causes him. “The hunters. There were a couple of weird things about them. First of all, they thought that you were a werewolf.”

            “What? Why?”

            “How would I know? Anyway, the other weird thing is that they didn’t use a wolfsbane bullet. They’re _hunters_ , they must have known it wouldn’t kill me.”

            Stiles frowns, his eyes alert and curious once more. “Maybe they were trying to send a message or something?”

            Derek shakes his head. “They were definitely there to kill me. It’s all they would talk about.”

            Stiles’s eyes fall on the bullet that’s lying on his bedroom floor. “That’s not a regular bullet, though,” he says thoughtfully. “Usually the jackets are made of lead or copper, and that’s definitely not either.”

            “Since when do you know about bullets?” Derek asks.

            “Since my dad was a cop,” is Stiles’s glib response. He goes over and picks the bullet up, wincing at the amount of matter that’s still clinging to it, and passes it to Derek.

            Derek turns it over in his fingers, frowning. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think this was made out of -”

            “Silver,” Stiles finishes with a decisive nod. “At least we know they’re not allied with Argent.”

            “We do?”

            “Think about it,” Stiles says. “Argent’s the leader of the hunters, and a good leader, too. He wouldn’t let anyone go after a werewolf without knowing that they had plenty of wolfsbane bullets on them. No, they must have done this behind Argent’s back.”

            It’s against every one of Derek’s instincts to trust an Argent, but he still has to admit that Stiles has a point. Besides, being shot and subsequently healed has sapped a lot of his strength, and he finds himself too tired to puzzle out the hunters’ motives tonight. Making up his mind, Derek gets out of Stiles’s bed, ignoring the slight twinge of pain it causes in his chest.

            “Where are you going?” Stiles asks.

            “I need to find somewhere to sleep,” Derek answers. “There’s an abandoned subway car I’ve been checking out -”

            “Dude, _no_ ,” Stiles interrupts, looking unspeakably horrified. “Just stay here.”

            “The hunters have your name, and they can find out where you live,” Derek warns, but his resolve is wavering.

            “The hunters are human, and my dad’s the Sheriff,” Stiles counters. “They won’t start anything with me tonight.”

            Derek sees the logic. “Alright,” he concedes.

            Stiles smiles. “Why don’t you go to bed, huh? I need to clean up your…entrails from my floor before my dad sees.”

            “Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, but he’s already drifting off to sleep.

            He misses Stiles’s reply: “Night, Sourwolf.”

            It’s late when they get back to their hotel room, but Sam still has to work hard to convince Dean that calling Bobby right that minute would be a Bad Idea. Dean agrees reluctantly, but doesn’t seem able to wait, which is why Sam wakes up the next morning to Dean already on the phone.

            “Pick up, pick up, pick _up_ ,” he mutters, then straightens up. “Bobby, something weird just happened to us. Have you ever heard of a werewolf that can survive being shot by a silver bullet?”

            Sam watches his brother as Dean paces around the room, mostly listening to Bobby speak on the other end of the line, but occasionally inserting his own increasingly terse commentary. Before long, Dean is hanging up the phone with a muttered swear. “No luck?” Sam asks.

            Dean sits down on one of the beds and raises an eyebrow at him. Sam chooses to ignore it. “Why don’t we call Cas?” he suggests. “He might know what’s going on.”

            Dean visibly brightens at the suggestion. “Yeah, and he can smite the shit out of Derek for us!”

            That hadn’t been exactly what Sam was thinking, but he knows better than to say it when Dean’s in this sort of mood. Besides, for all their differences in the past, Sam knows enough about Cas to trust him not to smite an innocent man.

            Dean closes his eyes and says “I pray to Castiel to come the fuck down here, because we’ve got some werewolf issues.”

            Sam suppresses a snort, knowing full well that, no matter how rude he is about it, Cas will always come whenever Dean calls.

            Sure enough, the faint rustling noise that precedes an angel’s appearance fills the room, and then Cas is just there, stoic and trenchcoated as ever.

            “Hello, Dean,” he says.

            Sam kind of wants to say something, just to make sure Cas knows he’s actually in the room, but Cas and Dean are eyefucking pretty hardcore, and they haven’t seen each other in about a week, so he’s inclined to let them have this opportunity.

            Thankfully for Sam’s patience, Dean snaps out of his customary Cas-fixation after only a few minutes, clearing his throat and looking around shiftily as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Hey Cas,” he says.

            Cas inclines his head in acknowledgement. “What did you mean by ‘werewolf issues?’”

            “Have you ever heard of a werewolf that can’t be killed by silver?” Sam asks, wanting to get straight to business.

            Without even the slightest bit of hesitation, Cas nods. “Of course.”

            “Why haven’t we ever heard of them?” Dean demands. Sam winces, knowing how much Dean hates being out of the loop with anything supernatural-related.

            “Usually, these types of werewolves don’t hurt anybody,” Cas explains, moving to sit awkwardly in a chair. “They can control their shifts, and they don’t have the same craving for hearts that the other types of werewolves do. Simply put, you haven’t heard of them because they don’t do much damage.” He pauses, peering closely at Dean for a moment. “What has this werewolf done?”

            “He’s been turning people,” Dean replies. “Teenagers. We can’t let him get away with that.”

            Sam knows his disapproval is written all over his face, and Cas, for once, tears his eyes from Dean long enough to notice.

            “You don’t agree, Sam?” Cas asks.

            “Typical,” Dean mutters. “Sam the bleeding heart strikes again.”

            Sam knows that Dean’s just trying to get him riled up, but he can’t help but rise to the bait. “He hasn’t really _done_ anything, Dean,” he insists. “Sure, he turned Jackson, but by all accounts, Jackson _wanted_ to be turned. It’s not like he’s just randomly biting people.”

            “Jackson is a _child_ , Sam,” Dean shoots back, angry. “He’s not old enough to make that kind of decision yet. Besides, how do we know Derek’s telling the truth? He’s a monster, and monsters lie.”

            “Just because he’s a supernatural creature doesn’t mean he’s a monster, Dean!” Sam replies hotly. “He had no choice in becoming a werewolf.”

            “He had a choice in condemning another person to his fate,” Dean says. “Sam, this isn’t up for discussion. We’re killing him, and that’s final.”

            Sam opens his mouth to yell at Dean, probably something about how Dean is not their father and has no right treating Sam like a child, because he’s twenty-eight years old, goddamn it, but Cas interrupts him.

            “If you’re so concerned about whether or not this werewolf is lying, I can ascertain that for you,” he says. “Where is he located?”

            “Well, we’re not exactly sure of that, now,” Sam hedges. “Dean kinda shot him, so it’s not like he’ll be hanging around his house.”

            “I didn’t have a _choice_ ,” Dean says.

            “He was just _standing_ there, Dean, it’s not like he was threatening us!”

            “What is this werewolf’s name?” Cas asks, apparently choosing to ignore Sam and Dean’s bickering. “I can probably find him for you.”

            “Derek Hale,” Dean replies.

            Cas nods, and begins to do the thing he does where he looks off into the distance all stoic and impressive, presumably trying to find Derek. Sam has long suspected that he only does that to show off, but he keeps his reservations to himself, because it’s really not his place to question Cas’s awkward attempts to make himself attractive to Dean. Besides, it’s funny as hell, because every time it happens, Dean gets all serious and impressed, like the slightest distraction will knock Cas’s powers offline.

            This time is no exception, a fact for which Sam is glad because he’s really fucking sick of having this same argument with Dean over and over again. He knows he doesn’t exactly have the greatest track record with trusting supernatural creatures (It’s a sign of how much better he and Dean’s relationship has gotten since the end of the apocalypse that Dean hasn’t brought up Ruby yet), but he’s never going to lose that part of him that’s reluctant to kill innocent creatures.

            He thinks that if he did, he’d be no better than the monsters that they hunt.

            Cas snaps out of his trance. “I’ve found him,” he announces, and before Dean can protest, he reaches out to lay a finger on each brother’s forehead, whisking them away through the air.

            When Derek comes back to consciousness, he feels as though he’d never been shot at all.

            While this is rather par for the course for him – he’s been shot more times in his 24 years of life than he can count, and he always heals within a few hours – there’s something weird about this morning.

            He opens his eyes, and immediately sees the issue. Sprawled out next to him on the bed, his mouth gaping open and one arm flung up over his head, is Stiles.

            Derek experiences a moment of blind panic, and is up out of the bed before he can fully realize what he’s doing.

            Once he’s on his feet, he calms down a little, remembering what had happened the previous night, and, most importantly, remembering that he hadn’t actually slept with Stiles.

            He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Really, he would’ve been completely fine with never acknowledging the slight… _thing_ he may or may not have for Stiles, even to himself.

            Shaking himself slightly, Derek goes towards the window, attempting to escape and find someplace else to hide from the hunters, someplace where Stiles isn’t.

            Before he can leave, though, there are suddenly three more people in the room.

            Two of them are the hunters from the previous day, though they don’t look so intimidating at the moment, as they’re stumbling around, looking disoriented and sick.

            “Goddamn it, Cas!” the shorter hunter grumbles. “Warn a guy, would you?”

            The third man in the room, who Derek guesses is called Cas, answers, “I do not understand what you have against flying, Dean.”

            “I just don’t _like_ it,” the shorter hunter – Dean – replies. “makes me feel like I’m gonna hurl.”

            Derek would be quite happy to listen to Dean and Cas’s amusing little domestic dispute for a while yet, because it means that Dean’s not pointing a gun at him, but their voices have gotten so loud that they’ve woken Stiles from his slumber.

            In typical Stiles fashion, waking up involves flailing and wrapping himself up in his own sheets until he falls off his bed with a loud thump.

            Everyone goes silent as they stare at the lump of blankets wriggling and swearing on the floor. “This is Stiles,” Derek says wryly, turning to Dean. “Still think I’m lying about turning him?”

            Stiles finally manages to extricate himself from the blankets, and therefore catches the last part of Derek’s sentence. “ _Turning me_?” He exclaims. “You think I’m – Jesus _fuck_ – a werewolf?” He gives an alarming wobble in the middle of the sentence, blankets still snarled around his feet, but manages to stand up, clothes twisted around but dignity more or less intact.

            “Not anymore,” Dean says, eyebrows quirked as he takes in Stiles’s disheveled appearance. “If you’re not a werewolf, though, what in the hell are you doing hanging around with _him_?” he gestures to Derek. “He’s dangerous, kid, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

            Stiles draws himself up to his full height, which is several inches shorter than Dean. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be talking about who’s _dangerous_ in this room.” He says coolly.

            Not for the first time since he’d met Stiles, Derek is blown away by his loyalty. Even back at the beginning, when Stiles had hated Derek and all his loyalty had been reserved for Scott, Derek had been impressed. Stiles never seemed to think about himself, always putting others first. To the point where he’d even goad a dangerous hunter to help Derek.

            Derek moves slightly forward, putting his body in between Stiles and Dean. He doesn’t know if Dean has figured out how to kill him since last night, but he also doesn’t care.

            He’d rather die than see Dean hurt Stiles.

            The taller, longer haired hunter seems as though he’s trying not to laugh. “He’s got a point, Dean,” he says, and Dean whips around to glare at him. “Not _helping_ , Sam,” he hisses through his teeth.

            Cas, who has been silent since Stiles had fallen off the bed, chooses this moment to announce, “Derek Hale has not hurt anyone, Dean.”

            Coming from anyone else, this would seem like an echo of Sam’s earlier statement. Cas, though, has a way of speaking that makes it sound as though he’s just brought down a proclamation from on high. Judging by the way Dean huffs and rolls his eyes, but shifts his posture into something less confrontational, he feels the same way.

            Derek takes advantage of the decrease in tension to study Cas more closely. There’s nothing particularly odd or threatening about his appearance – though the trenchcoat in California is a bit questionable – but something about him fills Derek with a sense of unease. “What are you?” Derek asks.

            Cas regards Derek impassively. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

            “You’re _shitting_ me!”

            Derek lets his head fall back, shutting his eyes. He hopes that this adequately expresses his complete and utter disbelief at Stiles’s stupidity.

            Dean snorts. “That’s pretty much what I said, when I first met him,” he says. “Unfortunately, he is not shitting you.”

            “Why is that unfortunate?” Stiles asks, excited. “Dude, does this mean that heaven is real? Can we see people after we die? Can we -”

            Cas looks a bit overwhelmed by Stiles’s babbling, so Dean breaks in. “It’s unfortunate because angels are dicks,” he says firmly.

            Derek looks at the way Dean’s body is oriented towards Cas, in a way that mirrors the way his own body is oriented towards Stiles, and raises an eyebrow. He hears Sam stifle a laugh from the corner.

            “He’s not wrong, for the most part,” Cas says. “And yes, heaven is real, although, until recently, the souls in heaven could not visit one another.”

            “What do you mean, ‘until recently’?” Derek asked. He’d never been a particularly religious person, even before the fire took away his capacity to believe in a loving God, and so he’d never really entertained the notion that he might see his family again after death. This confirmation, being faced with a real live angel, makes him hopeful in a way he’s never been.

            “Heaven has been…under new management, since the Apocalypse,” Cas says.

            “Under new management?” Derek repeats, at the same time that Stiles yelps, “The Apocalypse!?”

            “Don’t worry about the Apocalypse,” Dean says casually. “We took care of it.”

            Stiles’s mouth drops open. “Ok, I have to know the story behind this. C’mon, we’re gonna go get breakfast.”

            Derek and Dean shoot Stiles identical incredulous looks. “What happened to me being ‘dangerous?’” Dean asks.

            Stiles shrugs, already rummaging through his closet for clothes to change into. “I have a feeling that your angelfriend won’t let you get trigger happy.” He shoots Dean a smirk over his shoulder.

            A muscle ticks in Dean’s jaw, but he doesn’t reply. Derek doesn’t like the look of it, though, and so he intervenes before Stiles can wind Dean up even more. “Why don’t you guys go to the diner on Main Street,” he says. “And we’ll catch up with you once we’re done getting ready?”

            Cas, perhaps sensing the same tension as Derek, agrees, and puts one hand out as though he’s going to touch Dean’s forehead. Dean avoids the touch, though, going as far as to step back to avoid making contact with Cas’s hand.

            “Dude, _no_ ,” he says.

            Cas looks stoically exasperated, but puts his hand down, and walks towards the door. Dean and Sam follow him, though Sam is the only one to turn around and acknowledge Stiles and Derek with a small wave.

            “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Derek asks Stiles once he’s sure that Dean, Sam, and Cas are out of earshot.

            “I’m not really sure about anything,” Stiles replies. “But I figure it’ll be better if we get to know them, y’know? Kinda hard to kill someone you like.”

            “I think spending time with you will actually cause them to hate us,” Derek quips, allowing a small smile to slip over his face.

            Stiles turns to face him, affronted look on his face. “Is that any way to repay the guy who dug a bullet out of your flesh last night?”

            “Thank you, for that,” Derek says awkwardly. He knows Stiles isn’t really offended by his comment, but he’s not sure he can ever really repay Stiles for saving his life. Again.

            Stiles straightens up and looks Derek in the eye, uncharacteristically serious look on his face. Derek can feel the tension of the moment stretching out, and he responds by stepping back, putting a little bit of space between himself and Stiles. There are a million reasons that he can’t do this running through his head.

            Stiles looks disappointed, but doesn’t attempt to push the subject. “Ready to get going?” he asks.

            Derek nods slowly, and follows Stiles out the door.

            “…and then Cas gets his attention by yelling ‘Hey, assbutt!’ and fucking _threw a Molotov cocktail_ at him!” Dean laughs, enjoying the way that Stiles is hanging on his every word.

            “Dude, that’s how we beat Derek’s uncle!” Stiles says, gesturing around with his syrup-covered fork and nearly hitting Derek in the eye. “Jackson and I just rolled up on the scene and lit him on fire, it was great!”

            “Bad _ass_!” Dean says. “You’re alright, kid.”

            Derek exchanges a look with Sam across the table, both of them confused by how well Dean and Stiles seem to be getting along. Derek isn’t inclined to question it, though, because Dean’s completely lost his edge, and Derek’s fairly certain they’ll be able to convince the hunters to leave them alone without too much fuss.

            Derek’s about to offer his own story, when Cas turns to him and says “Derek. May I speak with you for a moment?”

            Confused, but unwilling to disobey an angel, Derek stands up and follows Cas out of the diner. He’s expecting Cas to jump right into it when they get outside, but he doesn’t, choosing instead to look around placidly, taking in the sights. Derek finds it refreshing. He feels like he’s been constantly surrounded by loud teenagers since Scott was turned, and he likes spending time with people who don’t need to fill every second with meaningless chatter.

            Derek wonders what it says about him that he’s developed a crush on the king of meaningless chatter.

            “You don’t need to hold yourself back so much, you know,” is Cas’s opening line.

            “What do you mean?” Derek asks. He feels like he’s had enough of enigmatic bullshit for the rest of his life from Deaton, but, again, Cas is an angel, who could probably smite him without raising an eyebrow.

            “About Stiles.” The nickname sounds odd on Cas’s lips, as though he’s not used to referring to people so informally.

            “Are you looking in my head?”

            “It’s kind of hard to miss,” Cas says, giving Derek a sidelong look.

            “But aren’t you guys really against that sort of thing?” Derek’s not really sure whether he means the homosexuality or the fact that Stiles is underage, though he remembers from the few times he had gone to church with friends as a child that Christianity hadn’t really seemed concerned with age of consent laws.

            In any case, Cas seems to interpret his question as referring to the gay aspect. “It would be rather hypocritical of me to condemn someone for loving the same gender.”

            “You’re gay?” Derek is less surprised than he should be, considering the way Cas has been invading Dean’s space all morning.

            “Technically, no. I have no gender,” Cas says. “But for the purposes of this conversation, yes.”

            Somehow, that doesn’t do much to make Derek feel better about his situation. “He’s sixteen,” he says, his voice hard.

            Cas studies him for a second. “You are not Kate Argent, Derek.” He turns around and makes to reenter the diner, but pauses to throw one more comment over his shoulder. “Besides, he likes you too.”

            Derek watches, shocked, as Cas goes back into the diner and settles in his seat next to Dean, casually bumping their legs together under the table. Dean’s hand comes to rest on Cas’s thigh as he uses his other hand to take a drink of water, looking around shiftily like someone can see what he’s doing.

            As usual, Derek’s attention is then drawn to Stiles, who has his head thrown back in laughter at something Sam had said. Derek suddenly doesn’t feel like being alone anymore. As he goes through the door of the diner, the clang of the bell melting into the soft sounds of people talking, and Stiles’s loud, bright laugh above it all, Derek lets himself seriously consider, for the first time, what it would be like to be with Stiles, to make himself vulnerable once again.

            He likes the picture it makes.


End file.
